It could be the time of year. Or it could be the time of life. As family gathers, annual Christmas calls happen, and traditional smells, tastes, and sounds of the season invade my senses, I am toggling between immersion in grandparenthood and memories of my younger self.
As I settle into the cocoon of pillows and blankets with my grandson, the hungry bear story book in my hand, the bedside lamp allowing just enough light for me to read without my glasses, I am overwhelmed by his tiny, warm body snuggled beside me. I am afraid of how much I love him. I want to film this simple bedtime routine and commit the image and feel of my heart drenched in love to an indelible file folder in my brain. My mother’s memories were robbed. It’s the part of aging I’m most afraid of.
After I have read the book, and retold the story of his mother as a baby climbing into the cupboard under the sink and sucking on a raw potato, the light is turned off, the ceiling fan adjusted to his specifications, and we lie together under the plaid blanket, me awaiting the soft steady breathing that tells me he is asleep and I can tip toe downstairs.
Looking into the darkness, the only light is a sliver from the hallway sneaking into the room from the edge of the door. My thoughts strayed past the risotto we had for dinner to a long-ago evening in New York City. The small restaurant served award-winning Italian food. In between the endless glasses of red wine, a basket of crusty bread and a large wheel of Parmesan landed on our table. I can still taste the sharp bite of the cheese softened by the syrup-thick vintage. Then the risotto arrived. Another savoury experience from thirty years ago that is so clear I could paint in detail the contents of the bowl. The endless laughter and fun of a decadent evening that included limousines and fine dining was a release from my life of juggling roles and responsibilities. The privilege and pampering were a reward for my unconscious sacrifices. I was far away from my family and home, dressed up in my ego.
How can that person be this person? A moment of nostalgic curiosity captured in a single memory frame. My life and I have travelled a different path from that setting. The recollection is a trophy from that epoch.
For now, I face my aging body and mind. I have more patience for my grandchildren than I did for my own. Being with them ignites my playfulness and humour. The sleek navy skirt and jacket and black pumps have been replaced with jeans, slouchy sweaters, and Birkenstocks (which I swore I would never wear). I am still dabbling in my third career as an executive coach, while spending more time tuning into my writing muse.
As I count down the months to my next decade, the songs and sights that catapult me back to a different era are frequent. I have a heightened need to connect the past to now. To understand and appreciate the odyssey that led me to the present moment. The highs and lows have their place in my history. They have shaped who I am now and what I will take forward with me on my intrepid quest.